


Dear Darling

by CuddlesandChocolateCake



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Epistolary, F/M, Letters, Mor is honestly such a good friend, Pen Pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-12 13:51:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10492260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlesandChocolateCake/pseuds/CuddlesandChocolateCake
Summary: After a rough breakup, Feyre Archeron sends a letter to a stranger she finds on an online pen pal service, not expecting a reply. But she gets one, and thus begins a correspondence that neither of them will soon forget. A collection of letters exchanged between Feyre and Rhysand, two strangers who aren't strangers to each other. Not really.





	

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS BEFORE AGREEING TO USE OUR SERVICE. PRYTHIAN POSTAL SERVICE WILL NOT BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR ANY BREACH OF CONTRACT COMMITTED IN IGNORANCE OF OUR POLICIES.

**From** : do-not-reply@prythianpostalservice.org

**re** : your involvement in our Pen Pal™ initiative

 

Miss Archeron, 

Thank you for participating in our free, global Pen Pal Initiative™. As a participant in this program, you are hereby agreeing to the following terms and conditions:

  * You are at least 18 years old. 
  * You are presiding at a location within the district of the Prythian Postal Service. 
  * You are prohibited from divulging your mailing address to your Pen Pal™. Your letters are to be addressed to our headquarters, and we will reroute them according to your assigned correspondence number (see below). 
  * Your mailing address, once submitted to us, cannot be changed. We apologize for the inconvenience. 
  * Personal information should be divulged with caution, and at your own risk. Prythian Postal Service will not be held responsible for misuse of this information.
  * You may withdraw your participation from this service at any time, for any reason. Please notify us if you wish to stop receiving letters from your Pen Pal™, and we will no longer forward them to you. 
  * If your Pen Pal™ wishes to withdraw their participation, any letters sent following their withdrawal will be disposed of. 



Prythian Postal Service may limit, suspend, or stop providing Pen Pal™ services to you if you fail to comply with these Terms (such as releasing your address to your Pen Pal™). 

Thank you again for participating in this exciting new program. We hope you enjoy your experience. Your correspondence number is: **55**.

Regards, 

Prythian Postal Service

 

* * *

  

September 8

Hi, 

So, I’m not really sure how this is supposed to work, but they gave me this number on that pen pal website and I kind of need a friend right now… I have no idea who you are and I’m not even sure where you are in the world and you could be a serial killer or something but I’m going to send this to you anyway. 

Sincerely, 

Sarah

 

* * *

 

 

_ September 15 _

_ Dear darling,  _

_ I’d be happy to correspond with you. Handwritten letters are extremely underrated, and you have lovely printing. I formally offer my services as pen pal and friend. Now, what troubles you?  _

_ Best regards, _

_ Rhysand _

_ P.s., I get the feeling that’s not your real name, but I commend your forethought. I could have been a serial killer, after all. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.  _

_ P.p.s., I’m not. I swear on all of the stars in the sky. _

 

* * *

 

September 23

Dear Rhysand, 

If I’m being honest, I didn’t know if you’d write back. I wasn’t even sure this would make it to you. I’m relieved that you’re not a serial killer—as it turns out, neither am I. 

The answer to your question, unfortunately, is a little hard to define. I broke up with my boyfriend a few days before I wrote to you, and it was brutal and messy, and it left me feeling pretty raw. I also just started going to a new school, and I have no friends there. I guess I’m lonely. 

Sincerely, 

Not Sarah (you were right.)

P.s., So dramatic.

 

* * *

 

_ September 29 _

_ Dear darling,  _

_ It appears as though we already have something in common—not being serial killers, that is. This should prove to be a good friendship, I think.  _

_ I’m sorry about your breakup, and I’m more sorry about how it’s making you feel. I’m no expert when it comes to love (though I’m sure many men and women would disagree), but I highly recommend a cup of tea and a good book. I hope you’re doing better since you last wrote to me.  _

_ In regards to your second statement, I have no doubt that making friends is only a matter of time. Besides, we’ve already established your lack of homicidal tendencies, so you’ve got at least one thing going for you, aside from excellent penmanship. What are you studying?  _

_ Hoping you’re well,  _

_ Rhysand _

_ P.s., Rhys is fine. Better, actually.  _

 

* * *

 

October 6

Dear Rhys, 

Thank you for the advice. I’m getting there, and there are still bad days, but the tea helps. Do you have any suggestions for good books? 

You were right. I met a woman in my history class last week, and we’ve gotten coffee a few times already. She seems to genuinely enjoy my company (to my constant surprise), and I like spending time with her, too—that counts as a friend, right? So now I’ve got two of those.

I’m studying fine arts, which is just a fancy way of saying that I study other people’s paintings and sketches and the like, and occasionally make my own. I’ll admit that I prefer the latter. Are you in college? 

Sincerely, 

F

 

* * *

 

_ October 14 _

_ Dear darling,  _

_ For your health and leisure, I have attached a condensed list of my favourite books—namely the ones that helped me when I was going through a similarly tough time.  _

_ See? I knew it wouldn’t be long. Besides, it only took one letter from you to convince me to be your friend, so you shouldn’t be too surprised.  _

_ I wish I was artistic, but alas, I prefer the written word. I’m studying literature—to do what, no one knows. But do what you love, right?  _

_ It has come to my attention (after asking a friend) that it is tactless to ask an artist for a sample of their art. So I’m not going to do that. _

_ Would you like to know a secret? I’m going to see the meteor shower tonight. My friends invited me to go out with them, but I lied and told them that I had too much work to do. I’ve heard that it’s notoriously difficult to see falling stars from the inside of a nightclub.  _

_ Sadly, this letter won’t reach you in time to suggest that you go take a look outside, if it’s happening wherever you are. So I’ll wish on a star for you.  _

_ Best regards,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

October 22

Dear Rhys, 

Thank you for the list. There’s something about reading that makes the world seem a little more bearable, don't you think?

That might be true, but it’s easy to converse on paper. You may not have liked me as much if you’d met me first. But I suppose we’ll never know. 

Because you asked so nicely (or rather, since you didn’t ask at all), I’ve attached a small watercolour that I did the other day. I obviously have no idea what you look like, so I used my imagination. 

I really wish I had seen this sooner. I would have loved to watch the meteor shower. What was it like? And what did you wish for? 

Sincerely, 

F

 

* * *

 

_ October 31 _

_ Dear darling,  _

_ That was a lovely way of putting it. Sometimes when your life becomes too difficult, it’s an extraordinary privilege to be able to escape into another’s.  _

_ I highly doubt that meeting you in person would change my opinion of you. I find myself quite taken with you, and I believe that’s a testament to your personality that you’ve managed to have that effect on me without us ever coming face-to-face. _

_ Speaking of which, are you certain we’ve never met? Because your painting is an excellent likeness. It’s stunning—you’re extremely talented. (And I’m not just saying that because it’s of me, I swear.) _

_ As for the meteor shower, there is no event more special to me. My mother used to take me to see it every year when I was a child, so in some ways, it helps me feel close to her again. And I can’t tell you that—don’t you know the rules? If you reveal your wish, it won’t come true. And we can’t have that.  _

_ Oh, and Happy Hallowe’en.  _

_ Wishing you more treats than tricks,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

November 8

Dear Rhys, 

Thanks for the chocolate—it was great, and it definitely beat the costume party my friend was trying to drag me to. I ended up staying in, which suited me just fine, but I think you’ll be happy to know that I have been making more of an effort to go out lately. More to the point, I find myself less inclined to lock myself in my room for days. The first few weeks that I was writing to you, that’s how I spent most of my time. But I've been feeling much better recently, and I have you to thank for a lot of it. 

The feeling is mutual—I kind of like you, too. I hope everything is going well over there, wherever “there” is.

I’m pretty sure we haven’t, if only because I’ve never met anyone who looked like the person that I painted.  ~~ Maybe I dreamt about you, or something. ~~ I’m happy you like it, all the same. 

I’m glad you got to go see it, and  ~~I’m so sorry~~    ~~I know what it’s like~~   I’m sorry I missed it—I’ll make sure I’m there for the next one. Then we can watch it together, if not in person. As sad a thought as that is. And thank you for informing me of these rules—I had no idea. I hope your wish comes true. 

Sincerely, 

F

P.s., Sorry about the messiness. I kept making mistakes. 

 

* * *

 

_ November 16 _

_ Dear darling,  _

_ Have you noticed that these letters keep getting longer? I’m most definitely not complaining. Talking to you is the highlight of my week. (Or rather, every other week. Damn postal service. If only we could talk telepathically.) _

_ That makes me so happy. And I’m grateful that you think your newfound vigour is my doing, but it was all you. I’m just a few written words on a piece of paper; you’re the one who’s getting yourself through this. With help, perhaps, but don’t sell yourself short. I’m proud of you, darling.  _

_ I’m gratified to know that you find me somewhat tolerable, too. All is well over in my corner of the world, if not a little bit stressful this time of year. Finals and all that.  _

_ I do like your painting, very much, and I’m flattered that you think I’m one-of-a-kind, darling. My housemates think that I’m vain for hanging it up in my room, but I told them that I was displaying a piece of fine art and to sod off.  _

_ I’ll make sure to tell you well before the next meteor shower, in that case. It’s not such a sad thought—after all, everyone looks at the same sky, no matter what side of the world you preside on.  _

_ It hasn’t come true yet, but one can always hope. What are your plans for Christmas? _

_ All the best,  _

_ Rhys.  _

 

* * *

 

November 23

Dear Rhys, 

I have noticed—no complaints from me, either. Writing to you is  ~~ one of the best parts of my life right now ~~   something I really look forward to. Telepathy would be pretty cool; but when you think about it, handwriting is kind of like the visual equivalent of your voice. And that’s pretty cool, too. 

Thank you, Rhys. 

I completely understand—my final project is due at the end of the month (which is approaching far too quickly), and I’ve got more essays to write than I know what to do with. I hope your workload isn’t horrible, and best of luck with all of it. 

I would agree with your housemates if I didn’t like the idea of having my painting hung up on someone’s wall so much.

So far, I have no holiday plans. My friend invited me to spend Christmas with her, but she’s flying home and I can’t afford a plane ticket. Maybe Santa will bring me something nice; but unless that something is a someone, I’ll be on my own. I hope your plans are more interesting. 

Sincerely, 

F

 

* * *

 

_ December 1 _

_ Dear darling,  _

_ I’ve never thought of it that way—what a fascinating concept. Your voice must be lovely, by that assessment.  _

_ Thankfully, by now I’ve finished most of my work, and my exams aren’t until next week. Best of luck with your unforgiving workload, and please find enclosed a chocolate bar of no mean size to help you on your way.  _

_ Despite your traitorous comment (which my housemates found hilarious, by the way), I’m proud to be the owner of such a spectacular work of art. The two of them are just jealous.  _

_ I’m so sorry that you’re alone on Christmas; that’s a fate no one should have to suffer. My plans are nothing extravagant: I’m just having a small get-together with my housemates and a few others. I wish there was some way that I could  ~~ be there with you ~~   help. Tell me if you think of anything, and it’s done. Santa Clause owes me a favour, anyway.  _

_ Your friend,  _

_ Rhys _

__

* * *

 

 

December 8

Dear Rhys, 

Good luck on your exams, and thank you again for the chocolate! It was gone in seconds. I tried to eat it slowly—I really did—but I inevitably succumbed to temptation. 

Maybe I should paint your housemates, too. Then they’d quit bugging you. 

Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s much that you can do to help me. The chocolate was fantastic, and now I have a few books to keep me company. Unless you want to send me a puppy; you did say I could ask for anything. I hope you have a good Christmas with your friends. And don’t feel bad for me—I know how to be on my own, remember? I’ve just decided I don’t like it as much anymore. (Thanks for that.)

Sincerely, 

F

 

* * *

 

_ December 15 _

_ Dear darling,  _

_ Your well-wishes were very helpful: I’m pretty confident that I did well on my exams, and at the very least, I got all of my work done on time. It’s smooth sailing until the new year. And I fully understand—I’m no match for chocolate, either.  _

_ Oh no, don’t do that. Cassian’s ego is big enough, and I like to think I’m special. You wouldn’t rob me of that, would you?  _

_ As you requested, there should be a box attached to this letter—I do hope the postal service was gentle with him, and do tell me what you decide to name the little guy. And you mustn't unwrap the other package until Christmas. I will know, and I’ll be quite displeased. I wish I could somehow cure your loneliness; hopefully these will be of some assistance to you, in that regard.  _

_ Happy holidays,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

December 21

Dear Rhys,

I can’t believe you sent me a dog! I mean, I already knew you were crazy, but now I have no doubt whatsoever. Imagine my surprise when, on my birthday, I get a call saying that a delivery has arrived for me, and when I go down to investigate, I find a life-sized stuffed dog with a bow around its neck waiting for me at the front desk. I named him Pretzel, because that was what he looked like when he was crammed into his cardboard box. All to say, thank you. Now I won’t be alone on Christmas, which was exactly what I wished for. 

Bad news… I cheated. I unwrapped the book that you got for me, and I’m already a quarter of the way through it. It is my birthday, though, so I think it’s fair that I got to unwrap a gift or two. Thank you so much for the presents—I hope you like yours as well (and that it doesn’t get destroyed in transit). 

Sincerely, 

F

 

* * *

 

_ December 28 _

_ Dear darling,  _

_ I am many things, but crazy is not one of them. I pride myself on being completely mentally sound, and on being excellent at making that heinous lie sound convincing. I hope your new, furry friend is good company, and that he made your Christmas more palatable.  _

_ For any other reason, you breaking the rules of gift-giving would have been unacceptable. But since it was your birthday, I’m willing to be lenient with my forgiveness. I’m happy to hear that you’re enjoying the book, and I hope you’ll forgive my presumption: I assumed you didn’t have it since it’s no longer in print. I’m relieved that I didn’t give you something that you already owned.  _

_ And it was the least I could do—your painting is the best gift I’ve received all season. If my housemates weren’t green with envy before, they definitely are now. I can’t believe you painted the falling stars for me. Thank you, Feyre.  _

_ Most sincerely,  _

_ Rhys _

_ P.s., You signed your painting with your name. Now, I may not have known you for very long, but I don’t think it was an accident. Thank you for trusting me with it. _

_ P.p.s., Say hi to Pretzel for me.  _

 

* * *

 

January 4

Dear Rhys, 

If you’re not crazy, then I’m not either. In other words: bullshit. But it’s fine—normal is overrated. And he did; Pretzel was the best Christmas gift I got this year, no contest. 

I finished the book—it was amazing. Please tell me there’s a sequel? And you’re right, I wasn't able to find that one, so thank you for finding it for me. 

I just painted what I thought of when I thought about you. I guess your story with the meteor shower stuck with me. I’m sure you would have appreciated another portrait of yourself, but I figured you might like some variety. 

Oh, and Happy New Year. Pretzel says hi back. 

Sincerely, 

Feyre

P.s., You were right. Again.

 

* * *

 

_ January 11 _

_ Dear Feyre,  _

_ You make a good point. What fun would normal be, anyway? If we were two normal, unextraordinary people, it’s likely neither of us would have signed up for this pen pal program. And that would have been a travesty. _

_ Lucky for you, there is a sequel. Many, in fact. That series got me through a really hard time back when my life wasn’t going too well, and I hope it brings you as much joy as it brought me.  _

_ As much as it pains me to admit it, I think your painting might be even prettier than me. You’re just that talented. And those stars are the last things that I see every night before I fall asleep. _

_ Have you made any resolutions for the new year? I’ve decided that this year, I’m going to make an effort to be more honest. I have a bad habit of trying to protect the people that I care about by keeping secrets, and it rarely ends well. So my resolution is to stop doing that. Wish me luck. _

_ Happy New Year, Feyre darling. _

_ Cheers, _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

~~ January 19 ~~

Dear Rhys, 

I will admit, it is a little bit unnerving to see “Feyre” up there instead of “darling”. And you’re right—ordinary isn't interesting. If I was ordinary, I wouldn’t have written an impulsive, desperate letter to a stranger halfway across the world just because I was feeling lonely. And if I was ordinary, I wouldn’t be falling in love with him. 

This letter is going straight into the trash once I’m finished writing it, but I really needed to put that on paper. 

Am I going crazy? I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m falling for a man I’ve never met, whose face I’ve only imagined (and painted more times than I care to confess), and who helped me out of one of the deepest, darkest holes I’ve ever found myself in. Only to throw me headfirst into another one. 

With utmost sincerity and profoundest confusion, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

January 19

Dear Rhys, 

I will admit, it is a little bit unnerving to see “Feyre” up there instead of “darling”. It’s like I’ve finally shared my biggest secret with you. Something about the anonymity of writing makes you honest, I think. 

Thank god there’s a sequel. I’ve just located a library near me that has the next book in stock, and I will be making my way there the moment I send this to you. I’m finding that even though reading is a somewhat antisocial hobby, it’s been helping me get back into the world, much to my friend’s great joy. She finally managed to coerce me into going dancing with her last night, and I actually had a really good time. 

That’s my new year’s resolution: to try to go out more, to get out of the house and start enjoying myself again. I’m not completely alone anymore, now that I have friends on both sides of the world, so there’s no reason to quarantine myself. I think I can do that.

I think that’s a great resolution; if you want, I can help you with it. How about this: I’ll tell you something honest, something that I’m thinking, and you tell me something in return. 

I’m thinking that I liked your painting of the falling stars so much that I almost didn’t give it to you. But I’d made it for you, and you needed it more than I did. I’m thinking that I might paint another one for myself.  ~~ Because it reminded me of you. ~~   Because it was beautiful. 

What are you thinking?

Sincerely, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

_ January 27 _

_ Dear Feyre,  _

_ The “darling” is implied. Always.  _

_ Do tell me what you think about the rest of the series once you make your way through it. I sense that you’re as avid a reader as I am, so I doubt it will take you very long. And please thank your friend for me—I’m so happy that you have someone nearby who cares about you.  ~~ I wish it could be me. ~~ _

_ That's a fantastic resolution, Feyre. You’ve come so far since you first wrote to me, and I think you deserve to have fun again, no matter how you choose to go about it. I have utmost faith in you.  _

_ I love that idea. Since you gave me two thoughts, that’s how many I owe you.  _

_ I’m thinking that your paintings are two of my most prized possessions. I’m thinking that I wish I knew what you looked like, and I wish that I had a modicum of artistic prowess so that I could try to draw you like you painted me. But my talent extends no further than pathetic stick figures and an overactive imagination. (See drawing on reverse of letter.) _

_ Take care,  _

_ Rhys  _

 

* * *

 

February 4

Dear Rhys, 

I love this series. I love it with all of my heart, and now I’m sitting at my desk waiting impatiently for the next book to become available because someone’s taken it out of the library already. And though I’m sure she’d appreciate it, I will tell her no such thing because you are my secret. My friend does not know about you—no one does, for that matter. 

Thank you, Rhys. You’ve had faith in me from the very beginning, even when I didn’t. And that means so much to me. 

Would you like to know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that I don’t want to tell anyone about you—not because I’m embarrassed or ashamed, but because you’re this special thing that I have in my life, and I don’t want to have to share you with anyone. It’s hard to explain, and maybe it makes me selfish, but I don’t care. I’m thinking that your drawing of me was masterful, and that I will frame it immediately and hang it up in my room like you did with mine. In return, I’ve attached one of my own. 

Eagerly awaiting the next book and your next letter. 

Sincerely, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

~~_ February 12 _ ~~

_ Dear Feyre, _

_ You don’t have to worry about sharing me with anyone, darling. I am completely, wholly yours.  _

_ As absurd as these thoughts may sound, here’s what I’m thinking. I’m thinking that you, what we have, is one of the most special things in my life. And I’m thinking that you were right, before—I most definitely am crazy. Because I’d have to be completely mad to admit that even though we’re worlds apart, even though we’re all but strangers to each other, I can’t get you out of my mind. It might sound impossible, but I’ve started to fall for you. And there’s nothing I can do about it.  _

_ I’m not going to send this letter to you, because I don’t have the courage to. I don’t know if I ever will.  _

_ Here’s to hoping that wishes on stars come true.  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

_ February 12 _

_ Dear Feyre,  _

_ I hope you’ve gotten your book by the time this reaches you. Waiting for sequels is one of the most trying, painful tests of patience. I’m a bit curious as to why you feel the need to keep me hidden from the rest of the world. But you don’t have to worry about sharing me with anyone, darling. I am only yours.  _

_ I’m thinking that it wouldn’t matter to me if you proclaimed from atop the highest mountain that we’re pen pals (as amusing as that would be), or if you never spoke a word about me to anyone. I’m thinking that you, what we have, is one of the most special things in my life. And I don’t think wanting privacy makes you selfish. I’m also thinking that my drawing pales in comparison to the one you sent me. Is that you? _

_ Hoping that this letter finds you well, and in the company of another good book.  _

_ Best wishes,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

February 20

Dear Rhys, 

It’s here. I’ve only just started reading it, and I can’t put it down. What have you done? There goes my social life (what little of it there was). 

Likewise, Rhys. You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, despite the fact that we’ve never met. ~~How weird is that?~~    ~~It hardly seems important.~~   Right now, I’m thinking about the painting that I just hung on the wall in front of my bed—the twin to yours. That was pure selfishness that led me to paint it. I don’t regret it. 

And yes, that’s me. 

Sincerely, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

_ February 28 _

_ Dear Feyre,  _

_ That was my plan all along.  _

_ As for your paintings, I’m glad that you have your own set of stars to watch over you. And the one you sent me…  ~~ Feyre, you’re beautiful.  ~~ I’m thinking that now I understand why you wanted to keep me a secret, because a part of me doesn’t want to show your portrait to anyone. A part of me wants to hide it and keep this part of my life private and untainted by anything else. Maybe that makes me selfish, too, but it doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.  _

_ I’m thinking that I wish that I had something to give you that was anywhere near as precious as the works of art that you keep giving me. I’m thinking that I wish on those stars every night, though my wish has yet to come true. But time will tell, I suppose.  _

_ Hoping your wishes have been more fruitful than mine,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

March 8

Dear Rhys, 

I knew it. All of your talk of books making me feel better was simply part of an evil plot to steal my will to do anything but read. It’s working, in case you were wondering. 

I’m relieved to know that you don’t think I’m crazy for wanting to protect you from the rest of my world. Like you, my stars are in plain sight, but my own painting of you isn’t for anyone else’s eyes. We can be selfish together. 

Well, you know what? I’m thinking that you gave me something infinitely more special than a painting simply by responding to my letter all of those months ago. You gave me hope. And chocolate. And a puppy. You’ve given me more than enough, Rhys. 

I just had a thought: do you think that if we wish for the same thing on the same stars, our wish will come true?

Sincerely, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

_ March 15 _

_ Dear Feyre,  _

_ You’ve figured out my master plan. Now I’ve got you wrapped around my finger, and I may do with you as I please. Literature is a powerful force.  _

_ Yes, let’s. And do my eyes deceive me, or did you admit to having painted me again? I’m flattered, darling. _

_ You make a good point—I sound like an awfully good friend, don’t I? I believe you’ve earned more chocolate for that proclamation alone. I hope it doesn’t melt on its way to you; it has been getting warmer outside.  _

_ I’ve never heard of that rule, but it does sound promising. If we wish on the same thing, that is. Which we’ll never know. I hope that your wish, whatever it is, comes true.  _

_ Your friend,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

March 24

Dear Rhys, 

I’ve finished the book, and I feel like I’m dying. You really are sadistic, you know that? And yes, books have incredible power.  ~~ So do you, it seems. ~~

I did. Paint you again, that is. I painted another portrait of you at the same time as I made the one I sent you all that time ago. I hadn’t meant to admit that to you, truthfully. I’m thinking that I almost regret suggesting honesty because I keep telling you things that I don’t mean to. Like that, for example. 

I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but you think awfully highly of yourself. But you’re not entirely wrong about being a good friend, even though you are bribing me with chocolate to gain my good opinion. Which is patently unfair. And highly appreciated. 

I’ll keep wishing, and I hope your wish comes true, too. 

Sincerely, 

Feyre

P.s., Feel free to continue sending me chocolate. 

 

* * *

 

_ April 2 _

_ Dear Feyre,  _

_ This is a fact that I am well aware of, and I am sorry for your suffering. Blame the author, though. Not me.  _

_ That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I am known for my inhumanly good looks, among other things; so it’s no surprise you wanted to keep a picture of me around. I’m thinking that I regret nothing, because there isn’t a single thing that you’ve told me that has made me  ~~ love ~~   like you any less. I’m thinking that I hope you never stop telling me things, because after all, I’m not nearly close enough in distance to judge you in any meaningful way. And I have no reason to.  _

_ I have been told that before, as it happens. Why shouldn’t I? You seem to be enjoying our correspondence well enough, and if that isn’t a glowing vote of confidence, I don’t know what is. And a little bribery never hurt anyone, so I’ll keep at it.  _

_ I’ve always believed that the stars listen to you. So do keep wishing. Maybe they’ll answer.  _

_ Yours truly,  _

_ Rhys _

_ P.s., Consider it done.  _

 

* * *

 

April 10

Dear Rhys, 

I blame you both. 

Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a bit of an arrogant prick. And I’m thinking that I probably won’t stop telling you things, because other than my friend over here, you’re the first person who didn’t dismiss what I was going through. You actually made an effort to help me, despite how far away you are. I’m thinking that I’m lucky to have you as my friend. 

This is true, I do enjoy writing to you; but don’t let it go to your head. Any more than it already has, that is. And please do—I’m well aware that you’re trying to fatten me up to gain my favour, but it’s working. Besides, not all of it goes to me; Pretzel quite likes chocolate as well, and I don’t mind sharing. 

~~ Every night, Rhys. I wish every night. ~~

Sincerely, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

Dear stars, 

I don’t know where to send this, but maybe if I write this down… I don’t know. But I’m going to try anyway. 

I only have one wish: I wish that some way, somehow, I can meet the man on the other side of these letters. Please, I want to meet Rhys. That’s all I wish for. I just want to see him—even if it’s only for a moment. I really hope you’ve been listening. 

Sincerely, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

_ April 17 _

_ Dear Feyre, _

_ Understandable. _

_ That, I am—an arrogant prick who completely neglected his work all semester and is now floundering trying to catch up on readings and coursework before his rapidly approaching exams. I never had any reason to judge you, Feyre, and it takes an incredibly brave person to open up about the things that trouble them—to ask for help. I’m delighted that you’re my friend, too. I’m thinking that I despise your ex-boyfriend with every fibre of my being, but do I owe him thanks for leading you to me.  _

_ Too late—it already has. Thank you for feeding my ego. The issue is that now that I’ve discovered what works on you, I have more chocolate than I know what to do with. So please find attached a box full of the damn stuff, because I certainly don’t need the temptation within reach. And aren’t dogs allergic to chocolate?  _

_ I hope that your finals are going well, and that you, unlike me, are prepared for them. Best of luck, and pray for me. Or you may not have a pen pal by the end of the month. _

_ Hoping there’s still a man on the other side of these letters by next time,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

April 24

Dear Rhys, 

I don’t envy you, though I do sympathize. Thankfully, my friend is studious to a fault, and she kept me on track throughout the semester—largely against my will. I’m thinking that if that’s the case, I owe my ex-boyfriend thanks as well (in addition to a swift punch in the face).

I figured as much. You’re incorrigible, but I  ~~ love ~~   still don’t mind you, anyway. Though I’m beginning to like you more now that there’s a giant box of assorted chocolate bars sitting in front of me, as well as a disconcerting number of empty wrappers. But it was all Pretzel, I assure you. And he’s just as happy and cuddly as ever, so I imagine the chocolate isn’t doing him any harm. 

Please don’t die. As I’ve said before, I find that I rather like talking to you. 

Hoping you’re alive and well on the other side.

Sincerely, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

_ May 2 _

_ Dear Feyre.  _

_ The good news is that I survived. I survived and the term is over, meaning I just completed my very last semester of college. The bad news is that I’m fighting a wicked hangover because my goddamn housemates convinced me to go out last night and get pissed drunk. My headache could shake a mountain. I’m glad you were more prepared for your exams than I was, though I think I did reasonably well, at least. And if you decide to pursue that course of action, remember to keep your wrist straight when you throw the punch, or you might not be writing for awhile.  _

_ Incorrigible, perhaps, but undeniably charming and loveable? Definitely. And generous, as evidenced by your new and impressive collection of chocolates, courtesy of yours truly. I’m happy to hear that your dog is doing well, and that you have someone to share your sweets with.  ~~ Even if that someone isn’t me. ~~ _

_ I’m thinking that I’ve never been happier to not be dead, as it were, because I find that I enjoy writing to you, too.  _

_ Your friend,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

May 10

Dear Rhys,

Glad to know you're still breathing. I’m sure it has by now, but I hope your hangover has taken its leave of you. Your housemates sound like fun, despite their apparent proclivity for making poor choices. Like you, I think I did alright on my exams, and I managed to hand in all of my work in a timely manner. So if all else fails, at least I didn’t. As for my ex-boyfriend, I’ve decided that he’s not worth my energy, so I’ll learn to throw a punch on my own time. But not for his benefit. 

Debatable. But I can’t argue with your generosity. The chocolate’s all gone now, unfortunately. My friend found my stash and promptly devoured what was left of it. Which wasn’t much, to be fair. You’ll just have to send more. 

What are your plans for the summer? 

Sincerely, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

_ May 18 _

_ Dear Feyre, _

_ It is with utmost regret that I must send you this letter. And to inform you that it might very well be the last one I send to you. In any other situation, no matter how dire, I would have found a way to keep up our correspondence; but I no longer have anywhere to send letters from, let alone receive them.  _

_ None of us know how it happened, but when I was out today, our house caught fire. Everything was destroyed. My housemates are both safe, thank god, but Azriel was trapped inside for several minutes and was badly burned. I’m currently writing to you from another friend’s place, but she doesn’t have any room to house me, so I’m moving back to my hometown for an indefinite period of time to look for somewhere to live.  _

_ I’ve tried everything, but the pen pal service won’t allow me to change my address, even in my situation. I combed through every word in the terms and conditions and emailed everyone there is to email, and there is no way for us to exchange new addresses without breaching the contract. _

_ I cannot convey to you how sorry I am, nor how heartbroken. _

_ One last time, here’s what I’m thinking. _

_ I’m thinking that I can’t stop thinking about you. And that it’s been that way for a long while. I’m thinking that out of all the things that I lost, I regret losing  ~~ your paintings ~~   you the most. And I’m thinking that you might think I’m ridiculous for saying this, but in the months that we’ve been writing to each other, I haven’t stopped falling for you. And I’m a coward for not telling you sooner.  _

_ I’m so sorry, Feyre. I’ll never forget you.  _

_ Always yours,  _

_ Rhys _

 

* * *

 

May 25

Dear Rhys,

I am so sorry. I can’t even imagine what you must be going through, and I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know that you’re alright. I hope your housemate is ok, and I understand why you have to move, no matter how much my heart is breaking for both of us. Since this is going to be my last letter to you, and since this may not even reach you, I’m not afraid to say what I’m about to say. 

Reaching out to you was the best decision I’ve ever made, and I can’t believe I’m losing you. Here’s what I’m thinking, for the last time. 

I’m thinking that I’m never going to stop wishing on our stars, no matter how futile it proves to be. I’m thinking that I wanted the same thing as you, and the number of times I almost told you will haunt me for a long while. And now it’s too late. I’m thinking about all of the times that I scratched out the only things I really wanted to say to you, and I regret that more than anything. And I’m thinking that what you told me doesn’t sound any more ridiculous than what I’m telling you: which is that the woman you fell for over months of handwritten letters fell for you right back. 

I wish I’d known. I wish I’d said something. I wished far too much and didn’t do enough on my own. 

I’ll never forget you, either.

Always yours, 

Feyre

 

* * *

 

She had to rewrite the letter twice. The first time, her hand was shaking so badly that her printing came out jagged and unreadable; and the second time, the steady stream of tears hitting the paper blurred the ink beyond legibility. When she at last sent it, she felt like she was mailing a piece of her heart away. And in a way, she supposed she was. 

 

* * *

 

It was fortunate that the semester was over, because for the first week, Feyre didn’t— _couldn’t_ —leave her apartment. She felt as though a huge, gaping hole had been ripped open in her chest, and each time she looked at her paintings, each time she looked at their stars, that hole opened wider. 

She’d lied to Rhys. At the end of the week, she took them down and stopped wishing. He was wrong—they didn’t listen.

 

* * *

 

Before Mor, Feyre had been content to endure her darkest, most melancholy days on her own, waiting for the tide of sadness to ebb away and suffering through the darkness until it did. It had taken time to convince her that it was ok to let someone in, to allow someone to care for her when she wasn’t alright. 

Since then, Mor had been a constant presence in her life, on both good and bad days. Whether she needed help chasing away the ghosts of her past or navigating the pressures of the present, Mor was there. Sometimes, that involved staying nearby, making sure Feyre ate and took care of herself. Other times, it merely meant being available on the other end of the phone, ready to talk at a moment’s notice, if that’s what her friend needed. But no matter the circumstance, Mor never let her friend suffer alone. 

She’d become quite intuitive, able to spot a bad day from a mile away, picking up on signs that would have been invisible to the untrained eye. So she knew that something was troubling Feyre not long after she sent her last letter to Rhys.

After several ignored messages and enough missed calls to warrant suspicion, Mor went to investigate. When she arrived at Feyre’s apartment, using keys that had been gifted to her in anticipation of a circumstance like this one, what she found wasn’t the funny, quick-witted woman she’d come to love.

Feyre was tear-stained, dishevelled, and lying listlessly on her bed, surrounded by tissues and a few chocolate bar wrappers; and she didn’t look up when Mor entered her room. Her thin arms were wrapped tightly around what appeared to be a large plush dog, her shoulders shaking as she cried into its velveteen fur. Evidently, she was in no fit state to answer questions—of which Mor had plenty—so she sat down on the bed next to her and started rubbing soothing circles on her back. She’d be here when Feyre was ready to talk. Until then, she could do nothing more than stay with her and console the poor woman for whatever ache she had in her heart. 

 

* * *

 

Sadness was inevitable, and the heartbreak was just as real and just as painful as it had been the last time someone had disappeared from her life; but unlike the last time, she wasn’t alone. 

Even though Feyre didn’t utter a word for days, Mor stood by her. She brought her food, made sure she stayed hydrated, and kept her company; and Feyre suspected that she was sleeping on her couch at night, making sure that she didn’t do anything regrettable in the soft solitude of darkness. 

When Feyre repeatedly turned down Mor’s suggestion to go out, to do something fun and distracting, she was sure that the blonde would abandon her. After all, a person could only withstand so much misery at once. But she didn’t leave. And if she did, it was only for a few moments at a time, and she’d soon return with pizza or chocolate cake or an armful of blankets. 

If Feyre didn’t want to go see a movie, Mor insisted that they watch one at home instead, and she all but force-fed her popcorn and cookie dough ice cream. If she couldn’t bear the idea of going shopping, Mor ordered takeout and they perused their favourite stores online. She was about as stubborn as Feyre was herself. 

But she still couldn’t piece together what had catalyzed Feyre’s sudden unhappiness. 

Mor had more questions than she could count, but Feyre’s health came first. So she waited until Feyre no longer looked like her grief was eating her alive before letting her curiosity slip its leash. 

Where Feyre was normally vague when she responded to Mor’s good-natured questions, this time she refused to give any response at all. So Mor reigned her curiosity back in, understanding the silent request to leave this particular wound unbothered, whatever it might be. When she was ready, Feyre would tell her what was wrong; and until then, her only task was to make sure that her friend hurt as little as possible. 

 

* * *

 

True to her word, Mor didn’t ask questions when, the first time Feyre said anything meaningful to her, it was to ask her to check the mailbox. And she didn’t ask questions when, having returned empty-handed, she wilted like a forgotten flower and began to weep, not bothering to wipe away the tears as they fell. She simply gathered her friend in her arms and made sure she knew she wasn’t alone. 

 

* * *

 

After two weeks, Feyre was certain she had no more tears left to cry. 

So, over breakfast that morning, she stated that she was ready to go out. Of course, Mor agreed instantly, and suggested that they get drinks at Rita’s that night. It had long been their favourite haunt, and Mor figured that it was probably a good idea to stay in the realm of comfortable, familiar places while Feyre was still hurting.

But Feyre had no interest in going somewhere they'd be able to have a conversation. That was still something she wasn’t keen on enduring. So instead, she put on something attractive and uncomfortable and dragged Mor to a nightclub they’d frequented during the school year (normally at the blonde’s request). The pinch of her too-tall heels and the scratch of her sequinned shirt offered her a brief distraction from the misery of the past two weeks, and she let the haze of alcohol and the deafening pound of music push her dark, troubled thoughts aside for a few blissful hours. 

That night, Mor stayed sober. She danced, because no one in the world could stop the wild, free-spirited woman from twisting and twirling and taking control of any dance floor; but she kept a clear head. If Feyre wanted to drink, if she wanted to lose herself for a few hours, she was well within her rights to do so—and Mor would be there for her when the peaceful oblivion abandoned her and reality came rushing back. 

Once Feyre was sufficiently intoxicated, Mor took her home; and for the entire walk back to her apartment, Feyre’s head was tipped back towards the clear night sky. Mor couldn’t be sure in the darkness, but she thought she might have seen a tear slip down her friend’s flushed cheek. Somehow, she didn’t think it was because of the alcohol.

At the end of the night, when she finally collapsed onto Feyre’s couch, Mor was sure that there was nowhere more comfortable in all of Prythian.

 

* * *

 

Feyre didn’t remember much of the previous night. She didn't remember being thoroughly sick to her stomach, nor did she remember the feeling of Mor’s gentle hands holding back her long, golden-brown hair until the retching stopped. She didn’t remember being tucked in, either, but the two Aspirins and the glass of water resting on her bedside table were proof enough of her friend’s care. 

When she awoke, she felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to her skull, and she gratefully swallowed the small white tablets. The memory of Rhys bemoaning a similar experience— _“My headache could shake a mountain.”_ —hit her like a slap to the face, and she bit down on her trembling lip hard enough to draw blood, sending a fresh wave of pain to her throbbing head. It was a welcome distraction from the answering ache in her chest. 

 

* * *

 

She spent the next week alone, as Mor was busy—and extremely apologetic about it—which meant that she had to invent ways to pass the time without her friend. They’d watched most of the movies that she owned, she was no good at cooking (and she didn’t particularly enjoy it), and painting was out of the question. She resigned herself to what would likely be a solitary, boring week. 

In her halfhearted pursuit of diversion, her attention fell back on the series that Rhys had given her, the latest unread book sitting neglected on her desk. She hadn’t gone near it since their last letters to each other; but that day, she felt braver and lonelier than she had in weeks. And Feyre could never stay away from an unfinished story for very long. 

The moment she began to read, the familiar characters embraced her like old friends; and she allowed herself to escape between the lines, wishing that the story before her was her own. 

 

* * *

 

When Mor came back days later to check up on Feyre, she found her reclined on the sofa, her nose buried in a book of impressive size. She was so completely engrossed in it that she didn’t notice Mor until she wiggled her long, graceful fingers in front of her face, obscuring the pages. She scowled as she sat up, and marked her place with a hand-painted bookmark that she’d made the day the first book had arrived in the mail. 

It was abundantly clear to Mor that Feyre hadn’t moved from her position on the couch all week, so she insisted that they both needed to get out of the house. A little fresh air would do them both some good. 

Her first instinct was to take Feyre dancing, to keep her in high spirits and chase the lurking darkness as far away as possible. But, remembering the last time she’d gone out in her current state, Mor hurriedly recommended going to Rita’s, instead. To get food, have a few drinks— _“A few, Feyre”_ —and perk up. 

Feyre hadn’t agreed so much as allowed herself to be persuaded. Mor was right—after a week with only fictional characters for company, a few hours of revelry would be welcome. Not to mention the fact that her friend seemed eager to go, and for all that Mor had done for her during the past few weeks, this was a small sacrifice. 

Given that she’d been laying immobile all day, Feyre forced herself to take a shower. But she refused to dress up—Rita’s wasn’t a particularly formal environment anyway—and threw on a clean sweater and leggings, forgoing cosmetics altogether. Mor never passed comment on her appearance, no matter what she wore, and she didn’t particularly care what strangers thought. 

Upon arriving, they ordered a pint of beer each and settled into their favourite table, which was mercifully vacant. They passed an hour or so in conversation; Mor was thrilled that her friend was slowly returning to the sharp, silver-tongued woman that she’d been prior to the mysterious tragedy of weeks past, and Feyre was surprised to find herself refreshed by their casual exchange, rather than drained. 

Noticing this subtle change of disposition, Mor tried once again to gently pry out whatever it was that was troubling her friend, who pointedly and deftly avoided her leading questions. Despite her unwillingness to reveal the real source of her sadness, Feyre was thankful that Mor hadn’t given up on her. She didn’t think she’d be able to withstand that. 

But she could have killed the blonde when she informed Feyre, after they’d been sitting at Rita’s for over an hour, that a friend of hers would be joining them shortly. Talking to Mor was one thing, but she didn’t think that she had enough energy to make small talk with a stranger for an indeterminate amount of time. 

She seriously contemplated making up an excuse to get herself out of there before Mor’s friend showed up, but she couldn’t do that. It would be extremely selfish of her, and she could tell from Mor’s cheerful tone of voice that she really wanted Feyre to meet this woman, whoever she was. So she stayed. 

After they’d both made it halfway through their pints, Mor’s face lit up as she laid eyes on someone behind Feyre and waved them over to their table. And it was with some surprise that Feyre laid eyes on not a young woman, but a man, approaching their table in long, graceful strides. 

She turned back around and gave Mor a questioning look. She said nothing until the stranger stepped into view, at which point she gestured to him with a twist of her wrist and said, “Feyre, meet my cousin.” 

The lazy smirk that had been tilting the man's lips vanished when Feyre faced him fully. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, his lips parted and his eyes wide. 

Feyre didn’t understand why until Mor completed their introduction; and her heart stopped beating when Mor finished, “Rhys, meet Feyre.” 

Her expression now mirrored his, and she wasn’t sure she was breathing as she looked up at the man, who looked equally as shell-shocked. As if his suspicions had been confirmed alongside her own. 

Indeed, her portrayal of him had been alarmingly accurate, though her brushstrokes and paints did not nearly do him justice. Whereas the watercolours blended him to soft edges, the real man was all clean, chiselled cuts, with full lips, tousled raven-black hair, and impossible violet eyes—which she _hadn’t_ painted. 

She didn’t care that her mouth was hanging open. She didn’t care that her eyes ached with the threat of tears. But she was afraid, above all, and she didn’t let herself believe what she was seeing—terrified that she was wrong, and that this was a horrible, cruel mistake. 

In a quiet, tentative voice, Feyre dared to whisper, “Rhys?” 

A smile that spoke of bone-deep relief broke out over his face as he breathed, “Feyre.”

And she didn’t care that Mor was gaping when Feyre all but threw herself at her friend; and when his arms encircled her, holding her close to him, the part of her that had broken, that had torn like so many unwritten letters, started to stitch itself back together. 

He thought she smelled like warm summer days, like floral vanilla and freshly picked berries; and she thought he smelled like cool summer nights, like moonlit jasmine and salty ocean spray. They breathed each other in like they’d never tasted air until that moment. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” Feyre croaked when they pulled apart a minute later, suddenly embarrassed about her very dramatic, very public reaction. 

But his eyes twinkled, and his lips quirked into a half smile that she’d tried to imagine innumerable times; it was so much better than anything she’d ever envisioned or painted, and it knocked the breath out of her. He leaned in close to her, and in a voice like silk and midnight, he murmured, “It’s not that easy to get rid of me, Feyre darling.” 

 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, Mor was more than a little impressed that Feyre had managed to keep such a big secret from her for such a long time. And she was keenly interested in everything that had happened between her and her cousin since they’d begun secretly sending letters to each other across what was, apparently, a very small world. 

So, when they returned home that night, Feyre sat her down and told her their story—the one they’d written in pen. Everything: from the very first letter, a plea from a lonely, dejected girl; to the last, the confession of a healthy, healing young woman. 

While they conversed, Rhys sat nearby, offering helpful commentary wherever he deemed it appropriate. Even though it was somewhat irritating, Feyre didn’t have the heart to tell him off. No, her heart was preoccupied with other things—namely the man himself, and the impossibility of his reappearance in her life. 

At some point during their shared accounts of the past few months, they found out where their stories connected: they discovered that where Feyre’s ended, Mor’s begun—as short a tale as it was. She explained that last week, she’d received a panicked call from her cousin—“I wasn’t _panicking,”—_ saying that he no longer had a home, and so she offered him hers. 

When Rhys had arrived on her doorstep, he’d been in a similar state to Feyre. There had been no light in his eyes, all of his normal confidence and swagger had disappeared, and for what little he’d brought with him, he’d looked for all the world like he carried an unfathomable weight on his shoulders. He’d looked like he’d lost more than a home.

That was what Mor had thought at the time—that his despair was because he’d lost his home. But it wasn’t until she saw him with Feyre that she understood exactly what loss he’d been mourning. And it hadn’t been the one that had burned to the ground.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t long before Mor sensed that she was no longer needed. But when she left the apartment, unnoticed by either of them, she felt neither jealousy nor resentment. She felt only profound happiness for her best friend and her dearest cousin who had, against all odds, found each other. 

 

* * *

 

Mor was right—both of them were too wrapped up in each other to notice when she took her leave. They were both quietly, intently appreciating all of the things that pen and paper couldn’t capture, such as the sound of their voices mingling together—Feyre’s soft, smoky timbre intertwining with Rhys’s sultry purr. 

Eyes of raging blue and depthless violet met only for stolen moments while they sat side-by-side on the couch, for there were far too many details to take in at once. As captivated as he was by the ocean in her eyes, Rhys’s gaze was often drawn to the freckles splashed across her nose and cheeks, like a smattering of stars in the night sky. And though she could have easily gotten lost in his leagues of starlit violet, Feyre watched the way the light played off of his features, and tried to memorize it so that she could paint it later. 

And there was a pure, unspoken joy in truly being in each other’s presence for the first time. It was a dream that neither of them had ever hoped to see fulfilled. 

“Rhys,” Feyre inquired some time later. “Did you…” she hesitated, “did you get my letter?” A benign question, if he hadn’t received it after all, but still one that she needed to ask. 

He was silent for several moments, a pensive expression on his face, and she took that as her answer. After all, he hadn’t had anywhere to receive it at the time. Those without homes don’t have mailboxes. 

But then he got up from the couch, leaving a perplexed Feyre behind as he went to retrieve his jacket. When she saw where he was going, fear seized her, and she wondered what she’d said wrong, what she’d done that would have made him want to leave. Had he changed his mind? Had he indeed received it, but decided that he no longer felt that way anymore? 

She breathed a sigh of relief when he returned, jacket in hand, and he chuckled at the residual panic on her face as he sat down beside her. She elbowed him in the side, both for laughing and for scaring her, and he responded with a look that said, _Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere._

Then, wordlessly, he reached into his coat and withdrew a crumpled white envelope. It was creased and wrinkled all over in a way that suggested that he’d worried it with his hands several times. He held it out to her, his eyes dancing with knowing amusement and such heartfelt care that it made Feyre’s heart skip a beat. With excruciating gentleness, she opened it and pulled out the paper inside. 

She couldn’t read much of what it said, given that the ink was blurred in places, the paper rippled and wavy—not unlike the way her own tears had marred those very same words the first time she’d written them; but there was no mistaking the letter for what it was. The message that she’d drafted thrice stared back at her, and she read it one more time, her throat tightening.

“Yes,” Rhys answered finally, unnecessarily, “I did.” And then there was no more space between them, and she was curled against his chest like there was nowhere else in the world fit to hold her. His arms wrapped around her, and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, laying his cheek against her bronze-gold hair. Perhaps there would be nights of passion and romance in their future, but that night was for something sweeter, gentler. It was a night of nascence, a night of reunion. 

And later, as she dozed off in his arms, she thought of the other letter she’d written—the one that had been different from the rest. She wondered if it had somehow reached the stars after all; or if the stars had been listening all along. If they’d listened, and answered. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! I've never done anything like this before, so let me know what you thought :) and come find me on Tumblr, if you feel so inclined...


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